Unbreakable Camels
by Lothithil
Summary: A possibly plausible version of how MacGyver escaped from Afghanistan, a meeting with a new friend, and what really happened to the camel. Sorta sequel to 'The Art of Smuggling Camels'.
1. Chapter 1 Hotfoot

**Unbroken Camels** _(a sequel to 'The Art of Smuggling Camels', also by Lothithil)_

_Like our hero MacGyver... I have a problem. I cannot ever walk away from an untold story. Here is the continuation of the tale I began with 'Smuggling Camels', and a possibly plausableversion of Mac's escape from Afghanistan._

_Thanks for reading and commenting!  
-Lothithil  
_  
**Part one, Hotfoot**

_There's an old saying that comes to mind; _'Distance makes the heart grow fonder.'_ I don't think that I can remember truer words... at least not while I'm running for my life. Traveling through this part of the world is always tricky, but when territorial disputes turn into small wars, it tends to make things... a little more lively. Thoughts of home were fond indeed, and I was a whole world away from where **I wanted** to be. I also would've been a lot fonder of a certain pack of Afghan terrorists-- I've never met a bunch of guys who could hold on to a grudge tighter than those boys-- if they were a little more distant. Unfortunately, they were hot on my trail... and getting hotter. And it was already hot enough here in the desert. I needed to find a place to hide, for myself and my ride. _

Dingo was putting forth a fine effort but he'd been on the job as long as I had, through four deserts and six countries as we circled around and hunted for the men I had been sent to find. We found 'em all right. And now they were about to find **us**.

Mac urged Dingo over the next dune, hoping that there would be something besides more sand on the other side. He had to do something if he was going to avoid getting caught, and the chances of that happening out in the desert were slim, but he knew that they couldn't keep going like this much longer. They were both near exhaustion. Still, it wasn't in his nature to just give up.

They surged over the top of the dune and then half-slid, half fell down the further slope. It was steeper than Mac had expected. He let out a yell as he tumbled off of the camel's back, rolling along at gravity's mercy while Dingo bellowed and scrambled, his long, heavy legs becoming entangled with each other.

They came to a graceless stop at the bottom of a pit. Mac bit back a cry of pain; there was a very heavy camel lying on his legs. Luckily, the sand was soft and nothing felt broken. Dingo let out a series of grunts and didn't move.

"Come on, boy," Mac groaned, pushing at his hairy hide. "Get up! If we just sit here, they're gonna find us for sure. We left tracks that a blind man could follow across this desert."

Dingo answered Mac's pleas by lifting his head and snapping his long yellow teeth at him. "You just don't care if we get caught or not, do ya?" Mac grumbled in frustration, trying to dig his legs free. "But then, not much can worry a mammal that tips the scales at three-quarters a ton. You big wooly slug!"

_Well, _**this**_ mammal was worried. I scrambled and strained, but I was stuck. The edges of the pit rose above my head, a sheer crumbling wall. Even if I still had possession of my legs, I doubt I could've climbed it. Dingo was gonna have a devil of a time getting out without some serious help.  
_

Mac looked around sharply. This wasn't just a trough between the dunes... it w_as_ a pit! A great vast hole straight down into the sand and definitely **not** a result of natural erosion.

There came sounds from above Mac's head, up outside of the pit. For a minute Mac was sure that they'd been found. His heart fluttered in his throat. He was a sitting duck; the proverbial fish in a barrel.

The sounds grew louder, and suddenly the mouth of the pit began to shrink. Trickles of sand came cascading down into Mac's eyes. The noise succeeded at motivating Dingo to roll onto his belly and off of Mac's legs. He sighed with relief, staggering upright to keep from getting buried in the miniature landslide. To his dismay, he found that not only was the opening above getting smaller, but the pit was getting deeper, too. They were sinking—not into the sand, but into the depths of the earth!

A metal roof closed over the opening of the pit like the petals of a lotus in reverse bloom. Light was completely cut off. Mac felt around for Dingo's lead rope and catching it, spoke softly to the trembling animal, trying to keep himself from being trampled to death.

A grinding, whirring sound came from one wall of the pit, and a reddish light fell on Mac's face. A doorway that had been perfectly concealed opened, revealing a man. He was a little less tall than Mac was, with a fit build and a head-full of thick, wavy black hair. He was holding a lantern and a handgun.

He and Mac stared at each other for a few moments, then the man said-- in perfect English colored with a downtown Chicago accent--"What in Hell's name are you two doing down here?"


	2. Chapter 2 A Smuggler and A Gentleman

_Meeting someone from back home in this place-- and at this particular time-- was like walking into the Museum of Ancient Antiquities and finding the mummy of Tutankhamun wearing my L.A. Kings Hockey jersey! _

_I wanted to laugh with relief, but I wasn't sure that what I saw was real. The gun seemed real enough, though..._

**Unbreakable Camels  
part two, A Smuggler and A Gentleman**

MacGyver and Dingo both looked at the man. The man looked between Mac and the camel, waiting.

"Hi," Mac said, raising one hand in welcome. The man with the gun flinched a little, and then relaxed when he saw that Mac was not holding a weapon. Mac wiggled his fingers slightly. "Don't shoot before I get a chance to thank you."

"Thank me?" The man seemed as startled to hear Mac speak, as Mac had been to hear him. "English?" he asked hesitantly. He lowered the gun and raised the lantern. "American?" he added, his voice sounding hopeful.

"And proud of it." Mac stated. "You're from Chicago, right?"

"South side." He spun the gun around his finger like a gunslinger. "And you?"

"Minnesota."

The gun slid smoothly into a holster that the man wore strapped to his hip, western-style. "I would have placed you a little further north. You've got more than a touch of Canuk in your accent."

"I got lost a couple of times on Boy Scout hikes and wound up in Manitoba." Mac nodded toward his hairy companion. "This is Dingo. He doesn't bite... well, _yes_ he does, but only when he has a good reason... most of the time." He slapped the beast affectionately on the flank. "My name's MacGyver."

"Anthony Sullivan," the man said, prodding himself in the chest with his thumb.

Mac extended his hand, "Thanks, Anthony."

Sullivan smiled and took Mac's hand eagerly. "You don't know how good it is to meet someone with manners in this godforsaken country!" He pumped Mac's hand heartily. "Everyone calls me 'Tony'. And what are you thanking me for?"

Overhead, there came the muffled sound of hooves pounding across the sand. Rough voices barked orders in a strange language, angry, confused, and frustrated. They sounded as if they were right on top of them.

Mac pointed up. "I'm pretty sure you just saved my life."

Tony looked up, listening. "Life's pretty cheap around here, MacGyver. Don't thank me yet."

Mac frowned. "Why not?"

"Because those might be my buyers. Didn't I say?" Tony smiled and gestured for Mac to precede him through the door. "I'm a smuggler."

xxxxxxxxxx

Mac regarded his new friend with some trepidation. "...And what is it that you're selling, Tony?"

Tony laughed at Mac's worried tone. "Not my fellow Americans... so you can relax. Come on," he said, walking ahead of Mac through the doorway. "Leave your pet camel here for a while. He'll be fine... but we'll have to move him before long... I'm expecting a drop-off."

Mac followed him slowly. The way was dark; Tony had taken the lantern with him. The door led to a tunnel that turned at a sharp angle within a few feet, then opened into a hallway. The walls were made of metal. Light filtered from ahead, silhouetting Tony as he proceeded Mac.

The hallway led out onto the floor of a large room, about half the size of a hockey rink and nearly two stories high. It was well lit, and stacked with many crates of all sized and shapes. There were racks along two of the walls stacked with different kinds of weapons, from guns as small as 22 caliber pistols to fully automatic machine guns. Boxes labeled 'ammunition', 'grenades', 'tear gas', and 'smoke', were piled around neatly. In the middle of the room stood a 50 caliber mountable machine gun, gleaming new as if it had been made yesterday.

Along another wall there was a shelf of books. Mac selected one and looked at the cover. It was a maintenance manual for a '66 Corvette Stingray.

"Boys' toys, I guess you could say," Tony said, belatedly answering Mac's question. He took the book from Mac's fingers. "They're almost as popular as the girly magazines. You'd be surprised how much money one of these will fetch."

"The manual… or the car?" Mac looked around at all the instruments of destruction displayed around him and suppressed as sigh.

Tony laughed out loud. "If I could get a Corvette over here, I could sell it for enough money to become a sheik myself and retire!" He turned off the lantern and set it on a table. "Don't look so depressed, MacGyver! You're safe down here. Unless they know exactly what they're looking for, they'll never find the missile silo or this bunker; it is so well camouflaged that even the government can't remember where they built it! It's owned by-- my employer-- and besides him, only me and the pilot that makes the pick-ups and deliveries knows exactly where the entrance is."

"That's not what worries me, Tony," Mac said. He gestured wearily around him. "All these weapons... it's like pouring gasoline on a fire! How can you sell them to terrorists?"

"Not everyone in Afghanistan is a terrorist, Mac. Some are just folks trying to live their lives without being pressed into someone's army or enlisted for the next weekly jihad. It's them mostly that we run the guns to... oh, there's more money in selling them to the baddies," Tony grinned at Mac, "and I'll probably catch all kinds of hell when I get home about that-- but hey!-- they sent me here to sell the guns... so I'll sell 'em to whoever **I** want to!"

"Who are you selling them for, Tony," Mac asked distantly. The room seemed to be getting darker and his arms and legs felt like they were made of lead.

"You don't want to know," Tony answered evasively. "Hey... how 'bout a drink?" He opened a drawer under the table and brought out a brown, flat bottle.

"No, thanks, I don't really drink very much. But if you've got some water--" Mac began to say. Tony noticed that he was leaning rather heavily on the table.

"You're about beat, aren't you? Here... sit down before you fall down! I'll bring you some water and then scare up some food."

Mac sank into a wooden chair and managed to stay awake long enough to drink some of the water that Tony brought him. It tasted wonderful. "Thanks again, Tony," Mac said, his head rolling to rest on the back of the chair.

"Hey, don't conk out yet!" Tony said. "There's a cot over there under the stairs. Let's settle you there. Upsy-daisy!" He pulled one of Mac's arms over his shoulders and helped him walk to the cot.

"'m gonna get sand all over your sheets," Mac mumbled as he laid down. The canvas-covered frame and thin blanket felt like a down-filled mattress to Mac as he sank down gratefully.

"I'm used to it," Tony assured him. "Take it easy for a while. I'll take care of your camel."

"Be careful..." Mac warned groggily, already half-asleep, "... he bites."

Tony let the burlap curtain fall and then pushed a rack of gas masks in front of the curtain, concealing Mac's hiding place.

"Don't we all?"


	3. Chapter 3 Dangerous Goods

_I was at the Kerrisdale Arena, lining up a slap shot. We were in sudden-death overtime, and all of my teammates were in the penalty box, cheering me on. The other team was lined up in front of me, ready to defend their goal. There seemed to be rather a lot of them, and strangely, they were wearing turbans instead of helmets and in their hands they carried AK-47's instead of hockey sticks. Curious._

_It wasn't until a camel went skating by that I began to suspect that I was dreaming. Rationality takes a back-step, and in the moments between realizing that I was dreaming and waking up, I figured that I'd better take my shot while I could. _

_I swung my stick back and gave it all I had. The puck burst into flames as it soared toward the goal. The other team lifted their guns and fired at it, but they all missed. The small, smoking missle flew unerringly toward the goal. _

_The goalie leapt out of the way as it burned toward him. It struck the net, but instead of burning through, the net stretched like a rubber band and sent the puck flying back toward me. I watched it grow larger and larger, but I couldn't move out of the way. My legs were buried in sand._

_Sand? No, no... this wasn't how it was supposed to go! Who's dream was this, anyway?_

**Unbreakable Camels  
part three, Dangerous Goods**

The sound of an angry voice pulled Mac from the dark, comfortable place where he had been lying. "This is **not **part of deal that I make with your boss!" The man was speaking broken English with a heavy Middle-eastern accent.

Mac opened his eyes and looked around before he moved. It was dark, but he could see a line of light coming in between the edge of the curtain and the wall. Moving carefully to avoid making the cot creak too loudly, he rose and peered out of the crack.

Tony was talking to a short, stout man with dark skin. They were sitting at the table, glasses and an open bottle between them. Tony poured the man a drink, saying, "Well, I'm amending that deal. Besides, you owe me one, Alfie... remember that shipment of ladies undergarments I had sent here from the States just for you... tell me, did her husband ever catch you two spooning?"

The man called Alfie grumbled in his native language, but he clicked his glass against Tony's in a silent toast. It became obvious to Mac that this was probably just a friendly argument between confederates. He gave a silent sigh of relief, but then his breath caught in his throat at what he heard next.

"Smuggling underwear into Afghanistan is lot less risky than try sneak American out under _Capitan_ Rafe's very large nose! This man has a price on head... very big! And if I am spotted... ooh, my head it will be-- displayed on pole over Rafe's private latrine! You ask much for one simple favor, _Antony_."

"Tell me again... who _was_ that woman married to, Alfie? Prince Abu-something-or-other, wasn't it? You call that 'less risky'? Ha! If he'd seen you with her, it wouldn't've been your head that he'd stick up on a pole, you know. It would've been your..."

"Enough! You have make your point!" Alfie interrupted hastily. "But what really you know about this man, this _MacAver_? What if he is spy?"

"If he is... so what? He's not spying on me-- or on you! If a piece of garbage like Rafe wants him dead, then that makes him **my** hero!" Tony drained his glass and poured another. "Will you do it or not?"

"What choice do you give me? None!" Alfie grumbled. "When?"

"I'm not sure yet. He's still asleep. Once I've talked to him I'll know more. Just plan to make the pick-up like we've discussed, and avoid Rafe's men for now. I'm supposed to meet with His Holiness later tonight."

"Brrr! Better you than me, my friend! That man has the eyes of reptiles," Alfie said with a shiver. He drained his glass. "You going to need lift, yes?"

"Nah, I'll take the tumbler."

"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow then. Don't get head shot off, please," Alfie implored.

"Awww, Alfie... I didn't know you cared!"

"I don't!" Alfie said roughly, but added with a grin, "If you get killed I don't get paid!"

"I'd miss you, too." Tony laughed, throwing Alfie his hat. "And don't spook the camel this time! It took me an hour to catch him when he ran off after you landed!"

Alfie's grumbling faded as he walked away. Tony poured himself another whiskey, but sat and stared at it without drinking.

He waited until the sounds of Alfie's exit faded completely. "You can come out now, Mac," Tony announced, swirling his drink in the glass.

Mac moved the curtain aside, then stepped around the rack of gas-masks that blocked the entrance. "You heard me?"

Tony laughed. "Yeah, there's not much that goes on in the hollow tin-can that I can't hear. Ol' Alfie there-- Abdul aFeyd is his real name-- he's been flying a chopper for so long that he can't hear half of what he says himself!" Tony swallowed the bourbon in one shot. "How much did _you_ hear?"

"That you plan to have him fly me out of the country," Mac saw no reason to hedge the truth. "And that you're planning to meet with someone named Rafe whom, I gather, is not an altogether pleasant person."

Tony laughed loudly. "Not quite. Oh, Rafe is a goat of a human being... that much is true! But he is not who I am meeting tonight. He's the one who searched this quarter of the desert for about ten hours after you disappeared under his nose yesterday. Whatever you did to him... he's got it bad for you!"

"How much money is he offering?" Mac walked up to the table, but he didn't sit down. Instead, he put himself through a series of stretches. His back muscles felt like a Gordian Knot after sleeping for so long on an army-issue cot.

Tony capped the liquor bottle, and then put his feet up on the table. "A thousand American dollars. That will get the rat-catcher's attention, but it's not sweet enough to interest me. I don't do business with the likes of him. I'll leave that to His Holiness."

"He's your boss, huh?" Mac asked. "Does he know I'm here?"

"No." Tony stood up, looking uncomfortable. "I'm hoping that you'll be out of here before I have to tell him anything. Alfie agreed to take you to the nearest American Embassy. You can get out of this country before Rafe raises the price high enough to tempt Alfie." He opened a cabinet that turned out to be a makeshift oven. Using a towel, he took something out of it.

"I'm not leaving," Mac said softly.

"Why the hell not?" Tony turned around, two MRE's in his hands. "Chicken or... chicken?" he asked, squinting at the labels.

Mac accepted one package. "Thanks. As long as it doesn't taste like sand, it sounds good."

"The wonders of chemical heating! I can't risk a stove... the smoke might be spotted. And besides-- lighting a fire around all this ordinance?-- forget about it!"

Talk was suspended while Mac ate. After he finished his MRE, Tony pushed the second one toward him, too. "G'on, I got a crateful," he said. "You're as skinny as that camel of yours. Who is eating me out of palm-leaves and compost, I might add!"

Mac laughed. "Dingo makes efficient use out of anything edible, and a lot of things that aren't!"

Tony waited until Mac was done eating and had drained his water bottle twice. "So, what's this about you **not** leaving... after I went to all the trouble of arranging it?"

Mac frowned. "I don't want you to think that I'm ungrateful, Tony, but I can't leave just yet."

"And again I ask... 'Why the hell not?' What are you doing here, anyway?"

Mac smiled, "You don't want to know."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Sure... throw my own words back in my face! That's gratitude!" He seemed more pleased than annoyed. "So, we both got secrets. Just tell me this-- honestly-- you aren't here to bust me, are you? You're not a cop or anything, right?"

"I am not a cop, and I am not here to bust you," Mac said.

"Good," said Tony, reaching for his liquor bottle again.

"But you might be able to help me find who I am after," Mac added.

Tony froze in the act of pouring. "Be careful, Mac," he said softly. "There are lines that it would cost me my life to cross."

Mac nodded. "Syndicate, right?" Tony's eyes widened slightly, but Mac raised his hand to keep him calm. "I'd already guessed as much. No one else has the capitol to run an operation like this. But like I said, I'm not with the Justice Department or Interpol. I'm looking for a traitor to our government. You may be a smuggler, Tony, but I think that you're also a patriot. Will you tell me what you can?"

Tony nodded. "But it won't be much," he warned.

"That's okay. I already have an idea who I'm looking for. Rafe's men have been chasing me for a while, ever since we fouled up a little kidnapping caper that he tried a few weeks ago. A team was sent in to rescue his hostages, and I was given the task of learning who was feeding him information from the Pentagon. I've tracked him down to a small city not far from here. He's an American, but he can probably pass off as European very easily. He's high-profile, in a position where he's trusted by the local government. Now, how many people like that can there be?"

Tony looked dazed. "Not too many, Mac. Only one, actually."

"You know who I'm talking about?" Mac asked excitedly. "Can you tell me who it is?"

"Mac," Tony said, drinking straight from the bottle, "I think you got a chopper to catch tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4 Cue the Bad Guy

_**Author's note: **I haven't the foggiest notion of what Afghanistan is like or what the customs of her people might be, so please excuse any outright errors I am undoubtedly committing. For the purposes of this story, let's just pretend that I know what I'm talking about._

_Some of you folks might remember Anthony 'Tony' Sullivan from the MacGyver episode entitled 'Three for the Road' (the unfortunate friend of Mac's who was tied up in the Syndicate and ended up 'buying the farm'). Originally, this story was supposed to offer a few details about how their unlikely friendship MIGHT have begun. I know that I have taken outrageous liberties with his character… so if you didn't recognize him, blame me! _

_While I was at it, it occurred to me that this might be a good way to introduce one of Mac's major baddies, too. I'm sure that you'll remember him…  
_

**Unbreakable Camels  
part four, Cue the Bad Guy  
**

A sand-scoured stone and wrought-iron fortress served the small city of Jiru as both center of magistrate and secure accommodations for local dignitaries. Half of the sprawling buildings were decorated with the finest furnishings available, bought with the flow of money from the desert oil-barons seeking favors from those men who passed for law-keepers in this wild corner of Afghanistan. Offices, suites, and an elegant restaurant attracted what money in Jiru there was to be spent, and the men who could be found there were finely dressed and had eyes that only lit up with lust or with greed.

The remainder of the buildings in the compound were rough and cold and filthy, and they served the common residents of Jiru as locations for tax collection, lock holes for dissidents and petty criminals, and of course, a small dead-end courtyard used for executions. Like the two faces of a coin, they never looked at each other, and yet together they made up the whole.

Just outside of the gates of the fortress and across a packed-earth road, a tavern did brisk business in the heat of the day. There, a man could buy a drink and a meal, or for a little more money he could buy a cold drink and a good meal, as well as other valuable things. The term 'talk is cheap' was unknown in this place; here, talk cost money, and if it was the right kind of talk, it could cost as much as a life.

It pleased Dave Ryerson to come to this place to conduct his business. The teakwood and silk furnishings inside the fortress annoyed him. His business was a dirty one, therefore it was fitting that the place he conducted that business should be dirty, also.

He took a seat at his usual table, where he had a clear view of all the exits and was far enough away from the bar and other tables to speak without being casually overheard. The bartender was well paid to make sure that it was always reserved for him. Even as he sat down and took off his white panama, the skinny man with a stained apron came rushing over, carrying a bucket of ice. Inside the bucket were bottles of American beer, kept on-hand solely for his consumption. Ryerson refused to drink the swill that passed for the local brew.

He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a silver churchkey, with which he used to open one of the beer bottles. Taking a long swallow, he sat back and waited. He was a bit early for his appointment, but that was fine with him. He preferred to be the first to arrive; it made it difficult for anyone to get the drop on him. Not that many would dare try. Still, Ryerson hadn't gotten where he was-- a trusted arm of an American crime syndicate and an international mercenary-- by trusting people.

This early in the day the tavern had few patrons, so Ryerson watched the street. An old derelict man came ambling along the wall of the fortress. He stumbled and lurched, throwing out an arm that lacked a hand to catch himself from falling. He slouched down on the ground, either in exhaustion or despair.

Ryerson sipped his beer.

Within minutes two men in uniform appeared. They shouted at the old man to remove himself, then when he did not go fast enough they grabbed him by both arms and dragged him. They threw him down in the middle of the street. By the time he managed to crawl the remaining distance to the kerb, where he collapsed, the guards had already returned to their posts at the entrance to the fortress.

Ryerson opened another beer. The bartender discreetly collected his first empty bottle. He could refill it with inferior brew mixed with formaldehyde and sell it to the locals. Most had never tasted real American beer and wouldn't know the difference.

Half an hour passed. A robed figure appeared in the street, coming from the direction that the old man had been heading. By the movements of this person, Ryerson guessed correctly that she was a woman. By her dark colored and unadorned clothing, she was probably the nun who worked at the mission on the edge of town. Ryerson rolled his eyes as he took another drink of beer. "Do-gooder," he mumbled, saying the words as if it were some kind of curse.

If she heard him, she made no sign. She knelt next to the broken man, speaking softly to him. Then she helped him to his feet and supported him as they walked together back toward the mission. Ryerson watched them, wishing that the bartender hadn't taken away his empties. He would have liked to throw something at them, but his bottle was still half-full and he didn't want to waste a good beer.

At the crest of the hill over which the road ran, the couple suddenly moved to one side. A rumbling sound was growing, preceded by a plume of dust. A vehicle appeared, traveling slowly and carefully avoiding the walking pair. A jeep with fat tires and exaggerated roll bars came growling down the street and skidded to a halt outside of the tavern. The man driving was wearing goggles and had a dusty red bandana tied over his face like a cowboy bandit. He climbed out of the dune buggy and removed his goggles. He tugged the bandana down to reveal a toothy smile. "Hiya, Dave!"

This always irritated Ryerson. Which was exactly why Tony always did it.

"You're late, Sullivan," Ryerson grumbled.

"Am I?" Tony asked cheerfully, sitting down at Ryerson's table. A cloud of dust followed him, reminding Ryerson of a character in a comic strip who's name he couldn't remember.

Ryerson glanced at his watch, and then pointedly flecked a few grains of dirt from his sleeve. "It doesn't matter... this time. But if you're ever late with a delivery..."

"When have I ever been late with a delivery?" Tony countered, pulling an iced beer out of the bucket without asking. He didn't have a bottle opener, and of course Ryerson did not offer his. Tony didn't need it. He gripped the cap in one strong, callused hand and twisted it off easily.

"Help yourself," Ryerson said sourly.

"Mmmm," Tony answered, drinking deeply. "Ah! Milwaukee's Finest! All I need now is a bowl of pretzels and a pretty blonde to flirt with... and I'd be a happy man!" Tony took another swig, winking at Ryerson. "No offence there, Dave. You're just not my type."

Ryerson cracked a smile. "You're a smart-ass, Sullivan, but you are funny. Okay, let's get to business... have you got the latest shipment ready?"

"Of course," Tony responded, gesturing widely. "All sorted and assembled. Alfie's making the pick-up as scheduled. Why wouldn't it be ready?"

Ryerson offered a grin that was more like an evil leer. "I heard that there was some excitement out near our stretch of sand. Captain Rafe and company lost a spy that they had been tracking." Ryerson watched Tony carefully. "You haven't seen anyone suspicious?"

"Can't say that I have," Tony lied smoothly. "Alfie's ugly face is the only one I've seen in the past six days."

"Are you sure? He told me where they lost his trail, and it is right around the location of the silo. If they keep looking, they might find the bunker."

Sullivan finished his beer. "They won't find it. That silo is buried more than six feet in soft sand when it is shut. Alfie knows to do a sweep before he makes an approach, and he'd see anyone who was out there long before they saw him. Besides, if they do much more than look around, they'll blow themselves sky-high on the anti-personnel devices that are seeded all through that area. And who's going to complain about a few less terrorists?"

"I'll complain... if you blow up any of my buyers," Ryerson said in a soft, dangerous voice.

Tony was not intimidated. "It won't be me blowing them up, Dave. The Afghans buried those mines and burned the maps. Everyone knows to avoid that place, and anyone who doesn't know..." Tony swallowed a sudden fear as he realized that MacGyver probably didn't know about those minefields. He prayed silently that the man didn't get it into his head to leave the bunker by himself. "Anyone who doesn't know will get what he deserves." Tony finished his sentence coldly.

This seemed to satisfy Ryerson. "Well, if you see anyone, tell me first."

"What? D'ya need some extra cash 'cause Hussin raise the price of your Old Millwaukee's?" Tony cracked, reaching for the last beer in the bucket.

Ryerson watched him open it with a sour eye. "Rafe's offering a pittance of a reward, but I'm more interested to learn which country has an Intelligence agent creeping around in my territory."

"Ask Rafe. Do you really want me to risk revealing the location of our base to play 'international spy'?" Tony asked incredulously. "I'm not that bored yet, Dave... and that definitely isn't in my job description!"

"Just keep your eyes open," Ryerson hissed angrily. "Why don't you finish that on the road?" he added, staring at the bottle in Tony's hand.

"Never drink and drive, Dave," Tony said. He upended the bottle and drained it. "You might spill some!" He set the bottle down on its side and gave it a spin. By the time it slowed down and stopped, he was already kicking up a cloud of dust, roaring down the street in his dune buggy.

Ryerson watched him go and didn't notice that the bartender had been standing nearby, hoping to collect the empty bottles, and that he had heard every word.

xxxxxxxxxx

MacGyver watched from his hiding place beneath a thick cluster of fronds outside of the walls of the city as Tony drove away, heading back toward the oasis where the entrance to the bunker was concealed.

_'Following Tony had been harder than I thought that it would be. The wind covered tracks pretty quickly out here. I spotted what I believed was a cloud of dust kicked up by his dune buggy, but it turned out to be smoke from someone's house inside the city walls._

_'I had to watch where I put my feet. The information that I had read about these old military installations suggested booby-traps, and I had no idea where they were buried. I walked softly and prayed that the mines were buried beneath enough sand that my stepping over them wouldn't trigger an explosion. Eventually I came to the city, though I smelled it long before I saw it.'_

A faded and pitted wooden sign identified the city in some Aramaic language that Mac couldn't read. He strolled through the gates boldly, trusting that whoever might have spotted him coming in from the open desert would take him for a down-on-his-luck local boy. There was light traffic inside the city and he made an effort to blend in. What little of his face showing above his scarf was tanned darkly enough not to attract attention, and he made sure that his turban concealed his fair-colored hair. No one glanced at him twice.

The first sizable structure that he came across upon entering the walls of the city was a building with a run-down and abandoned look. There were no windows, and some of the walls had large holes in them that had been covered by wooden planks. The smoke that he had followed was billowing out of a clay chimney that rose above the roof.

Mac paused in front of the building, listening. He could hear voices coming from within, but he could not make out what was being said. He turned to move along and collided with two people who were walking slowly up the street, their heads were bowed with effort, one supporting the other to walk.

Mac caught the arms of the man before he could fall, but the woman went sprawling into the street with a cry. Mac hurriedly set the man down on the kerb and held out his hand to help the woman stand up. _"I'm sorry!"_ he said in his broken Aramaic.

The woman waved off his offered hand. She stood up by herself, cradling her wrist. She said something in Aramaic, and then looked at Mac expectantly.

Mac had no idea what she had said. He hesitated, meeting her eyes with a question in his own. Her eyes were light brown.

The woman sighed and then spoke again, this time in French.

_"Oui, _ma'amMac caught enough to understand she wanted his help with the old man. He ducked under the man's arm, ignoring the musty smell of his clothes. After all, Mac realized that he probably didn't smell much sweeter himself. Um_… Voulez?"_

_"Voila," _she responded. Then she cocked her head and said, in plain and unflawed English, "You speak French atrociously."

Mac ducked his head and smiled. "You should hear my Russian."


	5. Chapter 5 Angela of Mercy

_**Author's Note:** And now I beg your forgiveness for the sins I am about to commit against the French language. I blame my high school Languages teacher... she should never have passed me!_

**Unbreakable Camels  
part five, Angela of Mercy **

Mac followed the nun into the run-down building that he had been looking at earlier. The man leaned heavily on him for support, mumbling rapidly in Aramaic. Mac just smiled at him, shaking his head a little to show he didn't understand. The man continued to ramble as Mac helped him over the threshold.

The first room they entered inside of the building was as dilapidated as the outside. She motioned for Mac to continue to follow her as she pushed aside a heavy blanket that was strung over a doorway. Mac obliged, entering a hallway that turned a corner and led to another blanket-draped doorway. They went through this and entered a larger room. Mac looked around, mildly surprised to see neat beds lined up along clean-whitewashed walls. It looked like footage from old 8mm reels of WWII hospitals.

Mac eased the old man down on one of the few empty bunks. There were many people in the room, some lying prone and others moving around slowly. Those who were not asleep stared at the newcomer suspiciously. Some tried to sink down beneath notice, turning their faces away in fear.

The nun knelt by the bed and spoke to the old man. He began waving his one good hand at her, as if shooing her away. She tugged at his bloodstained shirt, saying something insistent, but he growled something at her and crossed his arms, refusing to let her examine him. She sat back on her heels and sighed.

Mac watched them, feeling useless. "What can I do to help you?" he said.

_"Shh."_ With one hand she drew a blanket over the man on the bed, then motioned for Mac to follow her again. She said something soothing to the rest of her charges and they settled back, no longer unconcerned about Mac's presence.

She led him to a small room adjacent to the ward. This room was filled with shelves to hold supplies, though the shelves were mostly empty. She turned toward him, her eyes intense over the veil that covered her face.

"You should not be here," she whispered angrily. "You must leave at once!"

Mac backed up a pace, startled by her anger. "Um... you _asked_ me to come in."

"_Non_, I do not mean here... I mean in Jiru! This is a dangerous place for an American! This is a dangerous place for the people who live here!" She gestured back toward the ward full of injured and sick people.

"You don't have to tell me how it is, Sister," Mac said softly. "I don't want to be here at all, but I have a job that I have to do. If I manage to do it, then maybe I can help you, too."

"_Je ne pas_... I-- I don't need any help," she retorted, her voice breaking as she began to cry. "And don't call me Sister! I am not a nun!"

Mac wasn't quite sure what to do. He gently put his arm around her and patted her shoulder. At first she stiffened at his touch, but then she turned her face toward him and stifled her sobs against his chest.

"My name is MacGyver," he said, grasping for something to say that might calm her. "Um... what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She coughed a little, laughing through her tears. "_C'est terrible!_ Do you often come to third world countries to try to pick up dates?" She pushed herself away a few inches, pulling the veil down to uncover her face.

"I can't afford the fancier places," Mac said with a smile. "I'd offer you a handkerchief, but I'm afraid I'm fresh out."

She laughed again and used the veil to dry her eyes. "A gentleman as well as a hero! _Merci, monsier._ All you need now is a bar of soap and a bouquet of flowers, and you'd be the answer to my prayers!"

Mac chuckled, brushing at his filthy robe self-consciously. "I'm trying to blend in." He looked at her closely, a curious expression on his face. "If you're not a nun, then why are you here?"

She turned away from him to look out of the small window, the light of laughter leaving her face. Through the dirty glass, Mac could see a courtyard of dirt. Along one edge of the yard were several raised mounds; freshly dug graves.

Her voice was so soft that Mac had to move closer to hear her words. "I'm supposed to be a nun... to look like one, anyway. That was my cover when we came here. _Padre Deigas_," her voice caught a little, and a single tear escaped from her eye, "Padre Deigas needed an assistant, someone with a little medical training who could help support his work, who could speak the local languages. I... I volunteered to help, but I... I never dreamed that they... that they would..." She closed her eyes and wept again.

"Tell me what happened," Mac said gently.

"Padre Deigas was working for..." she stopped, turning toward him with her eyes wide and fearful. "Who are you? I mean... why should I trust you?"

Mac spread his hands in an open gesture. "Because you can. Because I want to help."

She sighed, leaning her forehead against the small windowpane. "I guess that there's no reason no to tell you... it isn't like they don't know who Padre Deigas really was."

"Tell me something first," Mac said, touching her shoulder to get her to look at him. "What is your name?"

"Angela," she answered weakly, "Angela Marquis. Or... as I have come to be known here," she added, lifting the veil to cover her nose and mouth, "_Seour_ Anne Christine. My patients call me _'xêhær'_." She let the veil drop and began to massage her injured wrist gently, her eyes drawn to the dingy window again.

"And that means..." Mac asked, leading.

Angela sighed. "It means... it means 'sister'," she responded reluctantly.

"Well, if everyone else gets to call you 'sister', why can't I?" Mac asked in a mock-petulant tone.

Angela turned toward him with a laugh, but her amusement turned into puzzlement. "I guess you can... what are you doing?"

Mac had been looking around as she spoke. He found a bottle of alcohol and a couple of thin towels. Aware that her supplies were limited, he folded one towel and stuffed it into a plastic bag he pulled from his pocket. He poured some alcohol into the bag, soaking the cloth, then sealed the bag. He took her hand from her and gently applied the homemade icepack to her bruised wrist.

She made no sound to show her discomfort, but the skin around her eyes tightened. "Can you move those fingers?" Mac asked, concerned about broken bones. "I might be able to cobble together something to use for a cast..."

"_Non_, it is not serious... just a sprain." She flexed her wrist slowly, wincing in pain. "I'll just have to limp on it for a few days." She looked at him with gratitude, and Mac found himself wondering what kind of terrible things she must have endured, to find so much to be grateful for in a simple act of kindness.

As if sensing his thought, Angela dropped her eyes. She took her hand from his, still holding the cold bag on her arm, and withdrew a few steps. "Padre Deigas was a man of God, but he worked also for an international organization that promotes peace. His assignment was to come to this place and learn the identity of the men who have been stirring up conflict to this region. Of course, missionaries are not terribly popular in the Middle East, but we were accepted by the populace of Jiru simply out of desperation for aid. The people are barely living above poverty, and anyone who cannot work is useless to _Them_," the implied capitalization was clear in her voice. "Padre Deigas was given this building to use for his mission only because the population threatened to riot if he was not permitted to stay. They allowed us to build our hospital, even donated supplies once in a while... when they needed the goodwill of the community. That didn't last long.

"What _They_ were really doing was giving Padre Deigas enough time to reveal himself as an agent. He told me one night that he had learned who was bringing weapons into the region, and that he suspected that this man was working closely with the magistrate to keep the border wars going and increase the demand for weapons. Just for the profit!." Angela spat in disgust, as if her own words tasted bad.

"One day, Padre Deigas received a request that he should come to the Fortress." Angela's eyes filled with tears again, but she didn't stop talking. "No one saw him for two weeks. A few days ago, he was thrown on the doorstep in the middle of the night. He was already dead."

Angela raised her eyes to Mac's, and though full of tears, her eyes were burning with anger. "I **knew** Padre Deigas, and he would never have told them his purpose here. They must have killed him simply because he was trying to help people!"

Mac wrapped his arms around her, trying to provide some comfort to her in her misery. "Why don't you leave now? There's no reason for you to stay here alone..."

Angela shook her head, her face buried again in Mac's shoulder. "I can not... I am needed here. There is no one to take care of these people... I can not just leave."

Her robe hood had slipped down to reveal a mass of wavy hair the color of brandy. Mac laid his face on the top of her head. He felt sick to his soul to see anyone so upset, and he understood how trapped she must feel. "You can't stay here alone, Angie. What if they come for you next?"

She trembled in his arms, and he felt like an ass for frightening her. But she lifted her head and laughed. "Do you know how long it has been since someone called me 'Angie'?"

Mac smiled at her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Angie, what you've been doing here is a wonderful thing, and I know that these people needed your help. But you have to let them go. You have to get out of here and report what happened to Father Deigas."

Angela became uncertain as his words sank in. "I... I don't know who to talk to... I was just hired to help. I'm not one of the agents..."

"That doesn't matter," Mac said firmly. "Can you be ready to leave by tonight?"

"Tonight! I don't know... Iban is injured. And Falgas refuses to take his medicine..."

Mac took her chin in his long fingers, forcing her to look at him again. "He'll remember to take it if you aren't here to wait on him. Believe me... I know. Men are big babies as long as there's a woman around who's willing to take care of them!" He took the veil that she'd been using as a handkerchief and wiped her face. "Now, since you're working one-handed, I expect that you'll need a little help. Tell me what to do. But by sundown we need to be going.

"But what about your job," she asked, fighting the return of tears. "Did not you have something important to do here?"

"Nothing more important than this," he said gently. "And besides, I think the answers are going to start coming quicker now." He moved over to the basin and began to wash his hands thoroughly. "We'll have a look at our friend with the bruises out there, and then maybe you can tell me what's been going on around here and who's behind it all." He dried his hands on the clean white towel. "Listen, Angela. It might be that they already knew about Father Deigas. It doesn't really matter why they killed him, but because they did, we're going to make them know that they can't get away with it. But in order to do that and make them pay for what they did, we have to get out of here with the truth." He ducked his head a little, searching her eyes for something. "Are you with me?

Angela stared back at him and nodded. As she did so, she felt the skin of fear that she had worn since coming to this forsaken country slough off from her. She let Mac fashion a sling for her arm from a scrap of torn bed sheets, and then they went out into the ward to help the man that they had brought into the hospital.

But he was gone. The bed where they'd lain him was empty, the blanket discarded on the floor.


	6. Chapter 6 Hung Out To Dry

**Unbreakable Camels  
part six, Hung Out To Dry **

"Who is he?" MacGyver asked Angela, as they searched the mission from cellar to rafters for the missing man.

Angela looked as if she were at a loss. "He-- his name is Iban. He is one of my helpers. He sometimes brings us food... or money... whatever he can beg or find. Padre Deigas would sometimes have to resort to... to the black market-- to obtain hard-to-find medicines-- and he always sent Iban as his contact."

"Father Deigas had connections with smugglers?" Mac frowned at that fact.

"Oui. There was no choice-- some medicines aren't even legally available in this country. Iban told me once that he used to be a smuggler... before he lost his hand," Angela seemed embarrassed, so Mac schooled his features so that he appeared patiently interested. It wasn't her fault that the mission had to resort to clandestine means for support. He gently encouraged her to continue speaking.

"I had been expecting him earlier today. I went looking for him, because he did not come when he said that he would-- _mon Dieu!_" Her hand flew up to her mouth; her eyes grew round and wide. "That was perhaps why I found him in such a state!"

"What do you mean?" Mac asked. Having searched the house, Angela led Mac outside into the courtyard. On the farthest end of the yard, a garden was being coaxed out of the arid soil. They looked all through the grounds, circling the dry trellises and were now coming back toward the rear of the mission. "What happened to him?"

"I found him down by _le chateau de conchon_... the tavern. He'd been beaten and was lying in the street. I was helping him back here when..." Angela lifted her eyes to Mac's face shyly, then looked away again quickly, "... when we bumped into each other."

Mac gave her an easy smile. "A fortuitous collision... for me."

They came to a long line where clean white sheets were hung to dry in the sun. Two robed and veiled ladies were putting out fresh laundry. Their thin, brown hands moved deftly, laying out damp sheets and pulling down and folding dry ones. Mac nodded to them as they walked past.

"So Iban is someone you trusted?" Mac asked.

Angela turned to him. "I trust him, but I do not know that you can! _Monsieur_ MacGyver, what if he has gone to tell _le conchon_ that you are here? They are looking for an Englishman, I have heard it said... maybe they will come here looking for you! You should go at once-- before they come!"

"I'm ready to leave when you are," Mac answered smoothly.

Angela grabbed him by the shirt with her good hand, giving him an intense stare. "You truly will not leave unless I go as well?"

Mac looked down at her. She was an admirable, petite package of a woman. Gently, he said to her, "If they come here looking for me, do you think that you'll be safe all alone? Come with me, Angela. Once you are safe, then I'll come back and finish my mission."

"_Non!_ You should not take such risks! Not for... for just me."

"It's not just for you," Mac insisted. "Think about Father Deigas and the people that you've helped."

"Tell me what it is that you seek in this place," Angela said suddenly. "Maybe I know these answers which you so stubbornly seek!"

"Someone is selling American military secrets to terrorists. I know he works out of Jiru and that he's a pretty high-profile character, but I don't know his name."  
Angela plucked at her lower lip absently, a habit which MacGyver found endearing. "Hmm. I wonder... I wonder if it is _le conchon_ that is that man?"

"Conchon. Doesn't that mean 'pig'?"

"_Oui._ If you washed a pig in _eau de toilet_ and dressed it in a suit, it would become _Le Conchon!_ But I know not his true name." Angela looked around desperately. "If only we could find Iban! He would know!"

A crashing sound came from inside the mission. Before Angela could exclaim, a small dark child came running out of the doorway, looking around wildly. He saw Angela and ran to her, whispering something urgently while pointing back at the house.

Angela's face turned white with fear as she listened to the boy's words. "They are here! _Mon Dieu!_ They are already here!"

xxxxxxxxxx

Rafka Sri was a hard man. His voice was as rough as his wind burned skin, his hair dry and wiry and unkempt. His hands were strong and scarred from fighting and from working. But hardest of all his features was Rafka Sri's heart. He believed that one man's success was the result of other people's failures, and it was his goal to make as many people fail as it took to make him comfortably rich... or as he liked to put it, "The ends justify the means-- as long as it is _their end_ and **my means!**"

Everyone called him Rafe, because Rafka was too soft a name for such a man.

xxx

"Tell your 'sister of mercy' that Rafe is here," he demanded to one of the elderly people who were cowering in the sick ward. He had ordered his men to surround the mission proper and grounds, but to wait there while he went inside. He didn't want to take any chances that his prey would slip through his fingers. He was tired of chasing people.

Before the old man could limp out of the room, Angela appeared in the doorway. Her dark robes and veil were in place. She had a stack of sheets folded over her hands.

"Captain Rafe, what can I do to help you today?" she asked. She handed the sheets to a helper, careful to show no sign that her wrist was injured.

Rafe gave her a leering smile that made her feel as if her robes were transparent. "Sister Anne Christine."

"Yes." She stood before him; small, defiant… humble and yet proud. Inside, she quailed, her heart as tremulous as a candle flame in a draft.

"I have only just returned home from a long journey, and I have heard that my friend Father Deigas... met some ill fortune." Rafe was missing several teeth from his rough life; his smile was as pitted as his soul.

Angela's eyes grew hard over her veil. She said nothing.

Rafe watched her reaction and seemed delighted by her anger. "I was surprised to hear that he was actually a spy. It make one wonder if perhaps one were to look around this mission, one might find more spies."

"What? Padre Deigas was no... you are deranged!" She stepped back, gesturing widely around the room. "Look! Look all you like! You will find no spy in this house!"

"Sister," Rafe said in his gravelly voice, stepping forward to close the space between them, "I'm looking at one right now." His hand closed around her injured wrist in a cruel grip. "Come. Ryerson wants to talk with you."

xxxxxxxxxx

**Mac's Voice-over:**  
_I recognized the man I had chased across Egypt, Israel, Saudi Arabia-- the same one who had been chasing me back through Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan to this place._

Mac watched helplessly from the roof as this monster led Angela away, surrounded by armed men. He had not understood all the words that were exchanged, but he didn't need a translator to know that Angela was in big trouble.

**Mac's Voice-over continued:**  
_I almost wished that Rafe had come for me… it's easier for me to slip out of his hands than to try to get in, rescue someone, and get out again alive. But there was no question about it… I was going to get Angela back safely. _

_How? Don't ask me that yet. _

And one thing that was still bothering me: why had Iban fled, and who was he… really?


	7. Chapter 7 Choose Your Sides

**Unbreakable Camels  
part seven, Choose Your Sides**

**Mac's Voice-over: **  
_There's a saying about people:_ 'The bigger they are, the harder they fall'. _When it comes to buildings, I've found that the same is usually true. Huge, strong buildings made of stone and iron are believed to be hard to break into because they look hard... but the truth is that the bigger they are, the more ways there are to get inside... and out. _

Doors, windows, ventilation ducts, drainage... the more rooms, the more doors; the more walls, the more windows-- the more stories, the more stairs... you see my point.

Back in my sandy, camel-scented robes it was easy to follow and learn where Rafe was keeping Angela. The Fortress it was called... but it should have been 'The Big Stone Swiss Cheese'. There were plenty of guards lounging in the shade by the front gate, but I could see more than a few easy ways to get past them. Getting inside would be no problem... it was getting Angela and myself out in one piece that would take a piece of doing.

I was just one stranger in this strange land, with the wrong shade of tan and an accent that would give me away the moment I breathed a single word. If I wanted to help Angela, I needed to be subtle. I was banking on the fact that Rafe and his goons didn't seem to know the meaning of that word.

But I was going to need some help... and of the three friends I had in this part of the world, there was only two still walking around free... and only one of those who wasn't a camel.

xxx

Anthony Sullivan was angry. The whole situation was ridiculous. Tony had a job to do... a job he did extremely well… a job that he had been sent a very long distance to do. He wasn't a spy, a snitch, a bounty hunter, or an assassin... he was a gunrunner. _Apparently,_ Tony thought bitterly, _somebody hadn't read my résumé very thoroughly!_

Ryerson was a power-drunk mercenary and his way of doing business turned Tony's stomach. Tony had half a mind to pack up his things, set fire to the munitions, and check out the weather in the South of France. But he knew if he did that... nowhere in the world would be far enough away from Chicago. The long arm of the Syndicate to find him where ever he ran.

Anyway... the problem wasn't about the Family... it was about His Highness Dave Ryerson.

The fact that MacGyver was gone when he got back to the bunker did nothing to sooth his frustration. Tony had been sure that he'd convinced the man to leave the country with Alfie. Getting Mac free and clear of Afghanistan and that bloodthirsty Rafe had been the only thing that kept Tony from losing his temper with Ryerson.

Now he felt just as sure that Mac had gone to Jiru, searching for his American traitor.

Tony was halfway down the tunnel to the oasis and where he kept his vehicle hidden before he realized that there was nothing he could do. Flying back to Jiru in a fury would accomplish nothing. If he found Mac and someone saw them together, it was likely that they would both lose their lives.

Tony slowly returned to the cavernous room and dropped into a chair. He put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. All he could do was wait. And hope.

Time passed. Tony woke to find his forehead resting on the pillow of his forearms. The bunker was quiet and dark. He reached out in the darkness for the lantern he knew was in the center of the table. His fingers found it and toggled the on/off button, but nothing happened. The battery was dead.

He groped in his pocket for a lighter but froze as he saw faint illumination. The light was coming from the tunnel that led out to the hidden exit near the oasis.

Tony slipped out of the chair and crouched, drawing his gun. Whoever was coming down the tunnel was taking care not to make noise. The light flickered and wavered, growing very slowly brighter as it came closer. Tony hurried to the wall next to the entrance to the tunnel, pressing himself flat and raising the gun. He drew the hammer back on the revolver with his thumb. When the hammer locked back with an audible click, the wavering light suddenly went out, dropping darkness over both Tony and the intruder.

Tony breathed softly and kept utterly still. He could hear something nearby, in the tunnel; soft movements and light footfalls. There came a scraping-scratching sound and then right in front of him light flared, illuminating MacGyver in silhouette. His back was to Tony as he walked into the cavern, holding a burning match in his fingers.

Tony sighed and uncocked the weapon. The sound made Mac turn around. He held up the matchstick and grinned at Tony. "You forget to pay your lighting bill?"

"Oh, you are a smart-aleck!" Tony said, holstering his gun. "Are you trying to get yourself killed... or just make my hair turn gray prematurely?" He slapped a switch next to the door and turned on the overhead lights. "That's weird," he said, his finger lingering on the switch.

"What is?" asked Mac, shaking out the match and pinching it with moistened fingertips. He didn't like the idea of an open flame around so much ordinance.

"The lights were out. They were on earlier... I dozed off at the table." Tony looked around to see if anything was missing. "Someone turned them off. Was it you?"

Mac shook his head. "I just got back from Jiru. Maybe it was Alfie."

Tony shook his head. "It couldn't be. Alfie's not supposed to return until tomorrow. You are going to go with him, right? I though we had a deal." Tony's confusion melted back into anger, and his thoughts jumped the tracks leading back to an angry place. "**Jeez! **You just don't 'get' it, do you, Mac? I am the only man in Afghanistan that wouldn't kill you for a dollar! What in God's name possessed you to go into Jiru?"

Mac walked to the table where Tony had been sitting. "Tony, I appreciate what you've done-- don't think that I don't! But there's more at stake here than my mission or your job."

"That's right!" Tony said. "Our lives, for instance!"

"More than that," Mac added. He picked up the lantern flipped the switch on and off. "Dead." He looked around. "Do you have any bleach?"

Tony gave him a blank look. "What?"

"Bleach... do you have any? Or anything with a high concentration of chlorine?"

"Lanterns are fueled with kerosene, MacGyver... even in Afghanistan." Tony went to the row of cabinets and opened a door, pulling out a half-full jug. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. "And that lantern runs on batteries, anyway. What do you need this for... trying to get out a stain?"

"Nope." Mac took the jug and set it on the table next to the lantern. "How about some brake fluid?"

"Brake fluid... are you kidding?"

Mac wandered toward the workbench, picking through tools and the odd objects scattered about. He glanced over at Tony and answered, "No, I'm not kidding. I saw your dune buggy. And as there aren't very many service stations out here in the desert, so I figure you must do your own maintenance. Oh, and by the way... do you know a woman named Sister Anne Christine?"

Tony shrugged. "Sure. She's a nun. She works for Father Deigas at the mission on the edge of town. An exercise in futility if you ask me. The folks around here aren't exactly into chistianity and brotherly love."

"Work**ed** for, you mean." Mac found a box of industrial latex gloves in the bench-drawer. "Father Deigas is dead. He died in the Fortress… and since Rafe has spent the last several weeks chasing me through the desert, _someone else_ is responsible for his death. When I have that someone else's name—and Angela is free-- **then** I'll be ready to leave."

Tony clenched his fists. "If what you say is true, I'll be going with you."

"I think you already know that it's true," Mac set the bottle down and turned to face his friend. "Tony, I'm gonna need a few things to pull this off... and I'm going to need your help."

"Take whatever you want. I'm not into killing priests and abducting nuns... that's not in my job description. The Family sent me here to provide weapons... not to create the demand! When I get word back home and tell the godfather about what that bastard's been up to-- heads are gonna roll... I guarantee it!" He walked over past the workbench and took several small bottles of brake fluid out of a small box. He pushed them into Mac's hands. "His name is Ryerson... Dave Ryerson."

Mac smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Tony."

Tony watched as Mac shoved some survival gear into a satchel, leaving a few items on the table. When Mac started to dismantle an alarm clock, Tony realized what he was doing.

"You know-- you really don't need to scrounge a bomb. I've got plenty of explosives here in the bat-cave."

Mac looked up at Tony, grinning, as he pulled a red pocketknife out of his pocket and flipped out a small screwdriver. "Explosives can be traced. I don't want you implicated in this... in fact, I need you to stay in solid with your bosses. Your credibility with the Syndicate must not be compromised."

"I don't get it, Mac," Tony confessed, running his fingers through his unruly curls as if to massage understanding into his head, "Whose side am I supposed to be on... theirs or yours?"

"You're supposed to be on your own side, Tony. I don't want you to turn **on **them..." Mac gave his friend a sly smile, "... I want you to turn **me** in!"


	8. Chapter 8 The Good, the Bad, and the Mac

'When night falls over this land, the sky gives back in beauty the sweat and blood stolen from a man's brow...'_ or so says an old desert folksong I once heard. I know a little about music. It's always been an interest of mine, but I've never really developed much skill for it-- writing or playing-- beyond a few songs on my old acoustic guitar. It sounds good to me, but I'm too shy to play for other people._

_If I had the skill, I'd write a song about this night... it was just right-- darkness melting all the shapes and shadows together, pooling over the land while the sky above glowed with an almost milky light. Perfect for a little illusion... and a little intrusion... and hopefully a lot of elusion!_

_Hmmm. I should write that down when I get a chance._

_It had taken a while to figure out the timing but we managed it, and soon we had a plan. By the time night was full and the guards were drowsy, everything was in place and I was ready to go in._

_It was risky... yeah, I know. If I had wanted to stay safe, I'd have never left Minnesota. If things worked out, we'd all be home soon. If it didn't work... _

_Well, I _**have**_ been accused before of being a chronic optimist._

**Unbreakable Camels**  
**chapter eight, The Good, the Bad, and the Mac**

Angela said nothing as she was led away from the mission. She answered no questions or responded to any jibe or insult that was said to her. In fact, she didn't hear anything said to her at all. She was numb and terrified. With all the dignity she could muster she held herself together, refusing to allow anyone to see how frightened she really was.

Rafe taunted, threatened, and leered at her. Yet he had not dared to touch her, nor had any of the men who followed them to the Fortress. Father Deigas had once told her that here was a superstition among the men of the desert lands. For all of the apparent disregard for women as individuals, there were strong social and religious taboos concerning intimacy-- especially with white christian women-- and because of this, it would be unlikely that any desert man would try to take advantage of her. It was the Western and European men that she should be most wary.

Because of those things that Father Deigas had said, and because of the quality of her own character, Angela was not afraid for herself. She feared for her charges, the helpless men and women in her care, who were not capable of taking care of them selves. She worried about the children who came to her for learning and for a decent meal at least once a day. Who would take care of them?

She was afraid for MacGyver, and of what Rafe and _le conchon_ would do to him if they captured him. She tried hard not to think about him because when she did, tears burned her eyes and panic crowded her thoughts. She just _knew_ he was going to do something foolish and get himself caught, and it would be her fault.

Angela followed calmly as she was led through the gates of the Fortress. They were made from wrought iron, strong and forbidding. Crossing the courtyard, she turned her face away from the sight of a bloodstained slab of stone. Cutting off the hand was still the accepted punishment for stealing another man's property. Angela had heard that beheadings, as well as firing squads, were also part of the local legal system. The barbarism of it all horrified her, and she was grateful that a veil concealed her face from her captors. She struggled to get control of herself as they marched her down the drafty stone corridors toward the dark, unfurnished side of the Fortress compound.

They took her directly to a small room with a high ceiling and locked her inside. Through the bars in the window she could see the night encroaching on the sky, gray as a prison wall. She sat down on the rickety wooden rack that served as a bed and bowed her head, finally allowing her tears to fall.

xxx

Rafka Sri wandered around in Ryerson's office in the Fortress, picking up objects from the shelves and desk and examining them as he gave a verbal report of his capture of Sister Anne Christine. Ryerson wished he'd keep his filthy hands off of his things, but he said nothing. If he interrupted the man's report, then it would take longer to hear what he had to say.

Dave Ryerson wasn't interested in spending any more time in Rafe's presence than absolutely necessary. He considered Rafe an unpleasant, uncouth bottom-feeder, but a useful tool that he needed to cultivate. In his line of work, the more people he had to do his dirty work for him, the less dirt he got on himself. And Ryerson liked to stay as clean as possible.

Making a mental note to have his secretary come in and clean everything that Rafe had touched, he pasted on a big smile and nodded as Rafe bragged and exaggerated, waiting patiently for his chance to speak. Eventually, the man would run out things to say about himself.

When there came a break between his boasts, Ryerson spoke. "Congratulations! Arresting a nun is _such_ a dangerous pastime... you were lucky to come back alive!" he laughed to take the sting out of his sarcasm.

Rafe puffed himself up angrily but controlled his temper.

Ryerson knew that Rafe was under orders from the magistrate to cooperate with him. Unable to resist goading the proud man when he couldn't retaliate, Ryerson added, "Too bad you let the real spy slip through your fingers."

Rafe scowled at him. "I will capture the Englishman. My men will find him."

Ryerson shrugged as if it were merely a matter of time and of no consequences. "I'm sure you will. I have sent every available man to form a parameter around this hamlet... he cannot escape. He can only hide for so long before he must try to cross the boarder into Pakistan or head back out across the desert."

"I wonder if the magistrate would approve of you leaving his fortress in the care of a mere handful of guards? Maybe I should send for my men to come here and reinforce security until he returns from the Capitol?"

Ryerson's smile faded a little. "That is not necessary. This fortress can easily be held secure with the guards I have retained. Your men have had a long journey and deserve to rest. As do you."

"I will rest when I have killed that Western spy."

"You will... you will." Ryerson said silkily. He sat back in his comfortable chair with his hands behind his head and a satisfied smirk on his face. "It's just a matter of waiting. And you know that I am a man who can wait."

"Yes, your patience is legendary," Rafe said, lifting a large brass statuette of a rearing horse from Ryerson's desk and paced as he turned it over in his hands. "My patience is not so vast, however." He set the object down on a side table. Ryerson gritted his teeth and said nothing. "I think that we should question the woman. She will tell us where he is hiding."

Ryerson laughed and waved a hand in dismissal at the idea. "The nun? She doesn't know anything about him."

"Why then did you send me to bring her in, if there is nothing of value that she can tell us?"

Ryerson wove his fingers together and settled his hands across his stomach and gave Rafe a condescending look. "Because that is what will bring the spy to us. He must have come to Jiru to make contact with Deigas. With him dead, he'll probably try to talk to his assistant instead. I had her checked out by my people... she's just a civilian-- peace corps in a skirt-- but if what I've been led to understand about his man you've been chasing is true then I'm certain that he'll attempt to rescue her. Especially if she's innocent."

"The magistrate will not be pleased when he learns of the priest's death. He was supposed to be held, not eliminated."

Ryerson frowned. "That was unintentional. How was I supposed to know he had a weak heart?" With an effort, he forced himself to smile again. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The magistrate probably would have had him executed when he returned."

"If you say so." Rafe remained unconvinced, but he let the subject drop. "And what will you do if this spy does not appear as you trust that he will?"

"Oh, he'll come... **_don't worry!_** " Ryerson stood up and came around the dest to Rafe's side. He slapped him heartily on the back as if they were old friends. "Never under-estimate the brainless heroics of a do-gooder. He stuck his neck out to rescue a total stranger back in Cairo. For a woman, he'd do it hundred times!"

Rafe fingered the large knife thrust in his belt and growled, "If he-- as you say-- 'sticks his neck out' here, then it will be the last time he does it in this life."


	9. Chapter 9 The Man With Three Faces

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_Hot, dry days... cold, frigid nights; that's what's to be expected in the desert. After you've lived for a time in this land, you eventually stop cursing the sun. More people die from exposure than sunstroke, freezing on that sand that only a few hours before was blistering. A land of many faces is Afghanistan; methods of survival change with the setting and rising of the sun._

_Tony and I didn't know it at the time, but we weren't the only ones in the bunker that night. We had a guest, hidden in the same spot that I had hidden that first night I had met Tony, and he was listening to everything that Tony and I said. _

_A devil of a good spy... or a guardian angel? I couldn't tell you. But he must have used wings, because he was waiting for us when we went back to Jiru!_

**Unbreakable Camels  
****chapter nine, The Man With Three Faces**

The guard at the gate yawned, stretched, and settled back against the cool stone until he found a comfortable position. He had long ago learned the knack of sleeping while standing, a useful trait for these long, uneventful shifts. He didn't really understand why the bosses insisted that there was always a round-the-clock guard outside the back gate; nobody ever dared to try to come in after sundown. He didn't understand, but he didn't argue either. He followed orders. Besides, with the magistrate out of town in the Capitol, no one would come to check up on him, so it was a guaranteed sleep-watch. He just hoped that it didn't get too cold tonight.

Footsteps echoed in the alley that ran past the corner of the Fortress wall where the back gate stood. The pace was unhurried, even, and heavy; combat boots. By the grudging light of the gas-powered lanterns, he saw a man in a dusty guardsman uniform walking toward him. He squinted for a moment, and then called out in Aramaic, "Hoy! Kef! You are late! I thought that I would be on duty alone tonight!"

The man continued to amble closer. "You are not Kef... what are you doing here?"

"Kef has been reassigned. I am Saiad. They sent me in Kef's place." The man was dressed in the correct uniform, wearing a black woven turban. He carried the standard issue firearm that all of the Fortress guards were given. If the guard at the gate had been less drowsy, he might have noticed that the man was perspiring beneath his robes.

"That lucky fool! He always manages to avoid this duty." The guard complained in a good-natured way. "I am Busin. I have never seen you around before."

"I was transferred from Gotti. I have only just arrived."

"And they stuck you back here for your first duty! Incredible!" Busin said, with good-natured sarcasm. "Usually one must distinguish oneself in disgrace before they are trusted to guard this gate!"

Busin continued to complain cheerfully about how boring this duty was, and how much more exciting it was to watch the front gate. Saiad listened and gave an impartial shrug. He removed a homemade cigarette from a fold in his turban and lifted it to his lips.

"Have you got another of those?"

"Busin," Saiad said as he handed him the cigarette, "you are a pathetic free-loader."

"I will buy you a beer after work. There's a tavern just outside the front gate... great American beer! Light me?"

Saiad struck a match and held it for Busin, pinching out the flame with his fingers after the fellow breathed the smoke deeply. Busin exhaled with a contented sigh, and then he toppled to the ground, unconscious.

"Sorry, _sahib_... I guess I used a little too much benzodiazepine." Saiad looked both ways to make sure there was no witnesses, and then he grabbed the man's feet and dragged him into the alley, where he hide him under a woven matt covered with garbage. He returned to gate and checked the time on a watch he kept concealed high up one sleeve. He nodded to himself, and then he carefully draped the flap of his turban so that it covered the lower part of his face.

Soon, the noise of a vehicle ruptured the silence of the night. A distance down the road there came a dark shape led by a swinging light-- a lantern hung on the grill of some kind of car. It rumbled up to the gate and slid to a stop. Saiad pointed the machine gun he'd taken from Busin at the silhouette of the man who climbed from behind the wheel.

"Hey! Don't shoot, buddy! I work with Ryerson." The man came around the front of the vehicle to stand in the light of the swaying lantern. "See? I'm Sullivan."

"What do you want here, Englishman?" Saiad demanded bluntly, in Aramaic. Beneath his scarf, he smiled. His disguise was working; Sullivan did not recognize him and believed that he was a guard.

Tony switched to the desert language, "I have captured a spy who was trying to steal my vehicle." There was something about this man that was familiar, but Tony was somewhat nervous about the coup that he and MacGyver was about to attempt to pull off and he didn't want to ask any prying questions-- not when he was trying to get inside the Fortress as smoothly as possible. He focused on the plan, adding, "Ryerson sent word that he was to be brought in alive."

"You have captured him?" Saiad asked, sounding incredulous. He played up his role as if trying for an Academy Award. "Capitan Rafe could not do so for weeks of trying! Where is this spy? How did you do it?"

Tony unhooked the lantern from the front of his dune buggy and came around to the other side, holding it high. The light revealed MacGyver slumped in the passenger side, his hands tied over his head to the roll bar. His head hung forward and he appeared to be barely conscious. A trickle of red ran down his face from his hairline.

"He thought he could help himself to the Tumbler... but I talked him out of it with a tire iron! He shorted out my headlights trying to hotwire it, so I had to use the lantern to see the road... but I got him here. What do you think... will Ryerson pay me a bonus?"

"Incredible! You will have the reward, _sahib_!" exclaimed Saiad.

"Not just me, my friend. Help me and I'll share the reward with you. I need to get him locked up quick. Will you help me put him in a holding room? I will report to Ryerson myself... this late at night, it would not be healthy for you to disturb his 'entertainment', I think... even for this."

"Yes, _sahib!_ I will help." Saiad shouldered his gun and helped Tony pull Mac out of the dune-buggy. Mac was completely limp and not an obvious threat. Saiad was slightly short, but stocky. He slung one of the man's arms across his broad shoulder. Tony took his other arm and between them, they carried him down the hallway toward the dark end of the Fortress.

Tony still held the lantern he had taken from the front of his vehicle. They paused to secure the gate. Tony glanced warily toward the brilliantly lit corridors where Ryerson held court. He'd be running into the lion's den, soon. He felt no fear in confronting Ryerson. He was only worried about MacGyver. In his opinion, Mac's part in this was far more dangerous than his.

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_I've got to remember to send a thank-you note to my high school drama teacher. The skills and techniques I learned in that class has helped me as much in my current line of work as my math and physics lessons. That and a little theatrical make-up-- in the form of strategically placed transmission fluid, which looks a lot like blood in poor light._

_My job was to find Angela and to get her out of the Fortress. Tony's was to report to Ryerson and set up a little interference to help us all get away. I worried about him a little... Ryerson was bound to suspect he had something to do with the escape, but we were counting on Rafe's ego to protect him. If a mere American like Tony had succeeded in capturing me where Rafe had failed... I half-expected Rafe to come and let me out himself, just so he wouldn't look so bad! _

_I planned to be long gone before he got the chance. _

_As soon as Tony and our new friend Saiad locked the door to my cell, I pulled up my shirt and began to unwind the rope I had hidden by coiling it around my waist. From inside my boot I fished out my trusty pocketknife, with which I unlocked the door in a matter of seconds. This place really wasn't designed to hold prisoners! _

_I peeked out of the door and saw an empty corridor. The guard must have returned to his post. I took a moment to set up a little surprise present for anyone who came into the room looking for me, then I eased out through the door and backtracked. I wasn't sure where Angela was, but I knew a way I could find out quickly and relatively safely. _

_I needed the advantage of high ground._

xxx

The heat of the day leached quickly from the stones, leaving Angela cold in her prison. She shivered and pulled her robes closer around her, but the chill rose from the stones through the soles of her shoes.

She drew her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself. With no distractions before her-- the walls of the prison were bare and the room empty, except for the creaky wooden cot and an empty jug that once might have held water-- she found herself reflecting on all that she had learned since leaving her home in France. She felt suspended in the middle of something, attracted and repulsed, uplifted and suppressed by the things she had seen here. Her life had seemed so empty of purpose back then that she had looked forward to the challenge of coming here. Now she laughed weakly at herself for having been so naive.

Forgetting her discomfort, she leaned back against the wall. It was damp with condensation; the stone seemed to be weeping. She was glad; she was tired of being the only one crying.

A scratching sound came from outside the window. At first, she didn't take note of it; but it persisted, drawing her eyes toward the aperture as the scraping noise grew slightly louder. Hesitantly, she stood up and moved closer to the window, moving an inch at a time. All she could see beyond the iron bars was darkness beneath a pale night sky.

Suddenly a head appeared on the other side of the bars, upside down. She leaped back, muffling a startled cry with her hands.

_"Shhh!"_ Mac whispered, swinging slightly beyond the window. He rotated his body around and lowered himself a little more, until his feet were braced against the wide sill of the window. He grasped the bars, stuck his face between them, and said lightly, "Nice view. Did you miss me?"

"MacGyver!" She ran the rest of the way to the window and reached up to touch his hands. She couldn't keep the smile from her face as she saw his handsome features in the semi-darkness. "You should not have come, but I am so glad to see you!" she whispered tightly. She felt as though she might cry again, but this time from joy.

"I was in the neighborhood." Mac released one bar and took her hand comfortingly. "Take it easy for a sec-- I'll get you out of here."

"How? Those bars are made of iron... you cannot bend them!"

Mac tugged on the bars, flexing his legs for leverage. "Well, no... not with my bare hands." He poked and felt around the sill and where the bars were embedded in the stone. "They're pretty well set in there, too. Hmm." He rubbed his jaw, thinking for a moment. He looked at Angela. "Is your scarf made of silk?"

She fingered the coarse fabric wound around her head. "Yes, it is."

"Do you have any water in there?"

"No... why?"

"The fabric will be stronger if it is wet... otherwise it will tear too easily."

Angela's eyes sought around the empty room, desperately. "The walls... they are covered with moisture. Will that be enough?"

"Maybe. Get the scarf as wet as possible and bring it here."

Angela obeyed, puzzled by MacGyver's requests but eager to help. She passed the damp cloth out to him between the bars.

He wound the fabric around two of the bars. "You got anything else in there?"

She looked around again. "Just the cot."

"Do you think you could break off one of the legs without making too much noise?"

"I'm sure... it's practically falling apart as it is!" Angela easily wrenched away one of the legs of the cot. The wood was warped, but seemed to still be solid.

Mac tied the scarf ends around the wooden stick and began to turn it, tightening the damp cloth. After a few turns the wood began to creak and Mac was afraid that it would splinter. Instead, the bars began to groan slightly and bend as he continued to apply leverage.

As soon as he had managed to bend the bars wide enough to fit his broad shoulders through, he tied off the stick with the loose ends of the scarf. He eased his body through the gap and dropped to the floor. As his fingers worked to loosen the rope that was tied around him, Angela stood nearby, hugging herself to keep from throwing her arms around him in desperate gratitude.

Mac went to the door and listened for a long minute. He couldn't hear anything, but he knew that didn't mean there wasn't a guard.

"Have the guards been in here to check on you lately?" he whispered as he hurried back to the window.

"Non. They have not looked in at all since they brought me here."

"Well, that could be good and it could be bad. I think we had better get out of here quick, but they might look in at any moment. Can you climb a rope?"

Before Angela could answer, a key scraped in the lock in the door. Mac whirled in alarm. He hurried to press himself behind the door, ready to hit whoever came through it.

He pressed herself against the wall, conscious of her naked face and confused by the feelings of shame that filled her. As the door swung open, she covered her face with one hand and turned half-away.

The door swung out slowly with soft creak. Whoever had opened it was taking care not to make too much noise. Mac froze, fist cocked and waiting for a target.

The man hesitated on the threshold, seeing Angela cowering against the wall. He held up one hand as if to calm her and stepped into the room.

Mac was about to spring out and strike when Angela cried out, "Non! Non!" and ran forward to the man. "Iban? It is you?"

The man turned toward Mac, bringing up his other hand-- the hand that was supposed to be missing. It wasn't missing anymore... it was holding a gun. Mac recognized him. It was the same man who had been guarding the gate this evening... and he now realized that it was also the man who he had seen at the mission earlier.

Angela stared at him. "Iban? You-- your hand!" She backed away uncertainly. "Who are you?"

"I am your friend, Sister," Iban said softly. "Though you may find it hard to trust me, you must believe!"

"If you work for Ryerson and that desert gunsel Rafe, I'm going to find that more than a little difficult," MacGyver said, moving so that he could stand protectively in front of Angela. "Although, a good start would be to put that gun away." Iban let the firearm drop to his side. "You were guarding the gate tonight... Saiad. Or is it Iban?"

"Mr. MacGyver, you are most correct to be suspicious, but there is no time now. As you said earlier, a guard might come at any time. I think it would be best if we get the Sister out of here before we are all caught. I will then explain everything."

"First tell me your real name."

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_I wasn't really sure why I wanted to know, or how I could be sure if he told me the truth or not, but I had to ask... I had another suspicion, regarding a light switch and -- in retrospect-- a **way** too easy infiltration of this so-called 'Fortress'. _

"You helped Tony and I get inside... why?"

"'Why' is for later," he answered as he peered up and down the hallway, "for now, my name is Abdul aFeyd-- my friend Tony calls me Alfie." He offered an ironic half-bow to Angela. "After you, Sister. If MacGyver here hadn't come in to set you free, it would have been me."

"Why?" Angela was still unsure, but the open door drew her like a moth to flame. Without waiting for her answer, she stepped out and looked up and down the hall.

"Go to the right." Alfie locked to door behind them. "If anyone comes, they will think you used MacGyver's rope to escape. We will go out this way. I have it from a very reliable source that the back gate is unguarded right now."

**Mac's Voice-over continues:  
**_I took Angela's hand and allowed Alfie to lead the way. We were entirely in his hands, but instead of feeling nervous, I was filled with certainty... at least for Angela's safety. My worry turned now to Tony. He was facing Ryerson and Rafe-- the snake and the desert rat-- and I couldn't leave until I knew he was okay-- I owed him my life._


	10. Chapter 10 Painful Diversions

**Unbreakable Camels  
part ten, Painful Diversions**

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_We hurried as quickly as possible down the stone corridors, Alfie, Angela, and I, trying not to make any more noise than necessary. Turns out we needn't have bothered... this end of the place was deserted. Most of Rafe and Ryerson's men were out looking for me. Of course, we had no way of knowing that at the time. I was focused on getting Angela to safety, and thinking about what methods I might use to get us all out of Afghanistan alive. _

_All this activity had not pushed from my mind that, back in the States, my mother was waiting for me. The last time I had spoken to her, I had promised her that I'd be home by Christmas Day. Time was running down, and there was a desperate feeling growing inside me. I _needed_ to get back there. I _needed_ to keep this promise to Mom. _

_Thinking about her and Home always brought a kind of calm to my spirit. In the midst of that calm, a sudden clarity came to my mind, and a flaw in the plan occurred to me. _

xxx

Mac pulled Angela back to stop in a familiar corridor-- right outside of his former cell.

"Saiad!-- I mean, Alfie!" Mac said in a loud whisper, "Wait!"

Alfie turned and came back to MacGyver's side. He made a 'what?' gesture with his hands.

"Ryerson and Rafe... what are they going to do when they find out that we've escaped?"

"They will immediately call in their men and turn this city inside-out to look for you and the Sister." Alfie nodded toward Angela, who was leaning over, clutching a stitch in her side.

"And what if they only find _her_ missing?"

Alfie cocked his head, not quite understanding. "I doubt that they would care, since they only pulled her in to tempt you into a foolish display of heroics." Mac smiled sheepishly and ducked his head in a self-depreciating shrug. Alfie tried to stifle his own grin and continued, saying, "They do not consider her a threat. That is why I was coming to free her; with you in custody, they would probably let her starve to death in her cell, just as they did Father Deigas. I promised the Father that I'd protect her."

"Then do that." Mac took Angela by the shoulders. "Go with him, Angie. Let him take you to safety. I'll be okay... I can escape anytime! But I want you away from here first."

"MacGyver, no! I... I don't want you to stay here!" Angela clutched at his arm. "Come with us!"

Mac gently detached her hand and kissed the back of her knuckles. The gesture seemed clumsy to him, but it brought a weak smile to her face. "Don't worry! If we both disappear at the same time, Ryerson may suspect that Tony helped us. I can't leave him to try to get himself out of all this. He saved my life-- I owe him one."

Mac kissed her on the cheek and then put her hand in Alfie's. He got out his pocketknife to open the lock; he was careful to avoid setting of the booby trap he had left behind. Apparently, no one had tried the door while he had been gone; everything was still in place.

Alfie bade Angela wait for him outside of the cell and he followed Mac into the room. He looked at MacGyver and he wondered why he felt such a desire to trust this eccentric American. "You are brave to do this," Alfie said softly. "Tony is a good friend and I had feared that he would bear suspicion if you escaped too soon. How long will you wait before you attempt your escape?"

"I don't know... why?" Mac looked around the depressing cubical that was his prison. It seemed smaller than before.

"Because an army of men is about to descend upon this place, sent from the Capitol. The magistrate of this region was arrested for promoting terrorism-- not all Afghans believe that is the only way to fight our battles!" Alfie's voice was fierce and passionate, but still never rose above a whisper. "I was sent here by the director of my country's security forces. Ryerson's activities will not be countenanced for much longer; he is not just supplying illegal arms... he is trying to take over this part of the country. His world will come to an end tomorrow."

"What about Tony? He isn't cut from he same cloth as Ryerson."

"This I know. It will be dangerous for any foreigners found inside the Fortress when the army arrives, but I intend to see to it that he is spared, even if I must purchase his life with my own. He is a good man. When the storm comes tomorrow... if we can stay alive until then... I will fly you both out of Afghanistan myself."

"I'll do my best," Mac answered with an ironic grin, "but I warn you... I'm an impatient guy!"

"If you are found here by the army and you are being held as a prisoner, I am confident that you will be spared. However, I do not believe it would be healthy for you to remain in Ryerson and Rafka's company for that long. Ah... speaking of which... before I go--" he looked apologetic as he added, "I'd like to offer my help to make this masquerade of yours as believable as possible." Without any warning, Alfie struck MacGyver hard in the face with his fist.

Taken completely by surprise, Mac reeled back and slammed into the wall. He clutched the stone with both hands to keep himself from falling as his vision went hazy for a few seconds. Blood splashed down his chin.

"I am sorry, friend," Alfie said, "but that will be more convincing than your fake head-wound."

"Well, I'm convinced!" Mac grinned in spite of his split lip, touching his mouth gingerly. "Good luck, Alfie... and thanks!" he added ironically.

"And to you, MacGyver. Mostly to you." The door closed and locked.

xxx

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_It was a good thing that Alfie had 'contributed' his help... but that didn't make my face feel any better. I hadn't hurt like this since the time Dingo and I fought over the last piece of chocolate and I lost!_

_To pass the time, I rigged my little 'surprise package' into a nice portable smoke bomb; a glass bottle of chlorine in a rubber glove full of brake fluid. When thrown against a hard surface it would break the _

_glass, mixing the fluids and creating smoky gas. The shards of the broken glass would rupture the glove, allowing the smoke to disperse into the air, providing a useful screen or even a distraction… in theory, anyway. The tricky part was finding a place to hide it._

_It wasn't long before I heard footsteps in the corridor. My stomach clenched, knowing that whatever Ryerson and Rafe had in mind for little ol' me, it wasn't going to be anything to write home about._

_I wondered-- not for the first time, I might add-- if this time I hadn't pushed my luck a little too far. _

xxx

When the door slammed open Mac lazily lifted his head, as if mildly interested to see who had come to call in the middle of the night. Rafe and Ryerson both came inside, followed by Tony. The gun Ryerson was holding had been pointed at Tony, but now the muzzle swung toward Mac.

"Well, well," Ryerson said. "I apologize for doubting you, Sullivan. Here he is!"

Rafe seemed the most surprised, gaping at MacGyver in wordless disbelief.

Mac stood up and gave Rafe a flippant, one-handed wave. He tucked his thumbs into his pants pockets and said, "Evening, Gents. How's the room service in this joint?"

Rafe smiled when he saw the blood on MacGyver's face. He walked forward with an unhurried pace, looked into Mac's eyes, and then buried his fist in Mac's stomach.

All the air rushed out of Mac's lungs and he sank to his knees. Rafe didn't let him fall all the way to the floor. He pulled him up by grabbing a handful of his hair. "How wonderful to see you again, MacGyver," he said between clenched teeth.

"Pleasure's... all... mine," Mac coughed, fighting for breath. He rolled his eyes toward Ryerson and asked, "Who's... this guy... the referee?"

"Don't count on any 'time-outs', MacGyver," Ryerson said, looking down at Mac with his cold reptilian eyes. They seemed more intimidating even than the cold barrel of the gun he held. "You've given my friend Rafka a lot of trouble. I think it's only fair that he gets in a couple of licks... if only so he'll quit complaining about how you've eluded him."

Rafe shot Ryerson a look of pure hatred. He grabbed the hilt of a long, curved knife that rode in the front of his belt and drew it with a sharp movement. He pulled Mac's head back and slowly touched the tip of the blade to his throat, as if looking for the best place to make the first cut.

Mac's eyes were drawn irresistibly toward the gleaming steel blade; in terrified fascination he noticed every detail of the weapon. The handle was of black rhino horn, carved in an elaborate design. The metal was Damascus steel, and it shone wickedly in the light of the lantern that Tony was carrying. The razor-sharp edge looked cold. Mac couldn't keep himself from struggling against Rafe's hold, but the pressure of Ryerson's gun at his temple forced him to remain still.

Mac realized that it was over; there was nothing he could do to save himself. As Rafe changed the grip on the knife and prepared to deliver the killing stroke, Mac had only enough time to realize that his promises to his Mother had been in vain. He knew he was going to die.

Another man might have closed his eyes and surrendered, but not MacGyver. It wasn't in him to give up, even now. He watched the blade descend again, fear and defiance showing on his face with equal intensity.

A shout sounded outside of the cell and footsteps came pounding down the corridor. Rafka hesitated, not wanting anything to interrupt this moment for which he had long been waiting.

A guard appeared and shouted his news, "Capitan Rafe! The woman... she is gone! Her cell is empty!"

"What?" Rafe pointed the knife-blade at the man as if it were a gun. "Explain!"

As the guard spilled his story, the pressure of Ryerson's gun against his head eased. Mac took the opportunity to breath once again. He could see Tony from where he was kneeling; he looked as if he were on the verge of shouting something. Mac gave a miniscule shake of his head.

While Rafe and Ryerson were both absorbed with the guard's news, Mac looked meaningfully toward the lantern. Tony blinked, then looked down at the thing, remembering. He gave Mac a half-wink to show he understood. Taking the base of the lantern in his hands, he rotated it slowly until it clicked. He set it down next to the door and began to count silently.

"I went to check on the other prisoner as you ordered, Capitan," the guard was saying. "The door was still locked but the bars in her chamber were bent. That is how she must have escaped; there is a rope hanging past the window."

"She will not get out of the compound," Ryerson announced calmly. "Both of the gates are guarded."

As he spoke, an alarm came from the direction of the courtyard. "Someone has opened the read gate and dispatched the guard!"

Rafe scowled. "She must have had help! I _knew_ she was a spy!"

Ryerson forced a laugh, but his eyes were worried. "She is nothing. She was bait to catch him-- " he pointed at MacGyver, who was enjoying the taste of still being alive, if even for only a few seconds more.

"Then why did they rescue _her_ and **not** this one?" Rafe demanded. He shoved MacGyver away from him so that his head struck the wall. Stunned, Mac fell back, grasping his head with both hands. Rafe took the opportunity to land a solid kick to the man's unprotected ribs.

Tony knew he had to intervene now or Mac would be killed. "We've been made fools of, Ryerson. **_She_** is the agent! **_She_** must have been behind everything, all along... I'll bet that she was the one that Deigas died to protect! And you, Rafe... whoever she is working for has convinced you that this guy," he nodded at MacGyver, who was too busy fighting to breathe to realize what Tony was up to, "was the mastermind behind it all! She's probably long gone now-- MacGyver was just the diversion! His job was probably to keep you busy while she infiltrated the Fortress!"

"Impossible! She is nothing! She's... only a woman!" Ryerson was becoming enraged. Unable to strike at the source of his anger, he directed his rage toward MacGyver. "Who is she? Where is she now?" he demanded. Rafe helpfully punctuated each of Ryerson's questions with a savage kick.

Mac couldn't have answered if he wanted. He felt at least one rib grind as Rafe's boot struck him. The world turned red, and then black. He curled up, trying to protect himself, teetering on the brink of consciousness. Rafe paused, not wanting to waste the effort on a semi-conscious man.

Ryerson took Tony's arm and spoke in an urgent voice, "Go and find that flyboy of yours, Sullivan. And then find **_her_**. The only place she'll have to go is into the desert. Pick her up and bring her back here. I must know what she knows and who she's working for... if you're right, she could ruin our whole plan."

Tony ignored the 'our'. "What about him?" Sullivan asked, indicating MacGyver. He was casually edging away from the lantern, still counting in his head.

He kept his face composed even as he winced inwardly while Mac was beaten. It took all of his discipline not to try to stop Rafe, but he knew if he tried, Rafe would merely kill Mac on the spot, and then likely Tony would be next.

_Just a few more seconds_, he said silently. _Just hang on, MacGyver!_

"Oh, don't worry about Mr. MacGyver," Ryerson said. He chose to interpret Tony's uneasiness as concern for their smuggling operation. The sight of Mac's blood staining the floor seemed to please him. "**If **Rafe can controlhimself," Ryerson said, "we'll have ourselves a nice, traditional execution in the morning... maybe even a double!"

"I can wait," Rafe said. He sheathed his knife and stepped toward Ryerson, who was standing near the door. "But get one thing clear: MacGyver is mine to kill."


	11. Ch 11 Broken Promises Unbroken Camels

"I can wait," Rafe said. He sheathed his knife and stepped toward Ryerson, who was standing near the door. "But get one thing clear: MacGyver is mine to kill."

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_Great... just how did I get to be so popular?_

**Unbreakable Camels  
part ten, Broken Promises and Unbroken Camels**

"As you wish, Rafe, my dear fellow," Ryerson said magnanimously, "I wouldn't dream of denying you the pleasure of killing MacGyver. Besides, it's nearly impossible to get bloodstains out of this material," he brushed fastidiously at the sleeve of his white suit.

Tony inched closer to Mac, who had managed to pull himself up to his feet and was holding on to the windowsill. He lifted his head and caught Tony's eye. Tony turned his face away from the door and mouthed the words: _"Five... four... three... two...one... "_

Absolutely nothing happened. Ryerson and Rafe both turned to leave the room. "Come on, Sullivan."

Mac gave him a desperate glance and mouthed, _"**Now** would be **good!**"_

Tony gave him a wide-eyed stare, _"I must have lost count! Any second now..."_

At that instant a very strange sound occurred, not loud, but oddly clear in the small room. It attracted Rafe's attention. He grabbed Ryerson's sleeve and pulled him back inside the room. "What is that noise?"

It was coming from the lantern. A thin, tinny buzz was being emitted from the base of the thing, and the light had grown dim, making it hard to see in the dark cell. The nervous guard pointed his gun at the lantern as if he expected it to spring up and try to kill him.

Ryerson listened intently, disbelief growing in his face. "It's some kind of music." He moved closer to the lantern, his head cocked as he tried to identify the tune. "I think... I think it's playing... 'I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy'?"

Mac and Tony both covered their eyes just before the lantern flared, delivering a blinding flash of phosphorescent light. The guard dropped his machine gun and shouted, clutching his face. Ryerson and Rafe collided with each other trying to get out of the door.

Mac and Tony rushed the three men. Tony grabbed the gun from the floor and used it like a club, knocking both Rafe and the guard unconscious. Mac reached Ryerson and landed an uppercut to Ryerson's jaw that sent him to the floor. Mac lost his balance and fell on top of him, groaning and clutching his ribs.

"Yankee Doodle... do or die!" Tony sang as he relieved Ryerson and Rafe of their guns. "My mamma bought me that alarm clock when I was twelve. You owe me a new one, MacGyver!" He took Rafe's knife as well. He offered MacGyver a hand to help haul him to his feet. He held out the horn-handled knife. "Wanna souvenir of your trip to Afghanistan?"

Mac took the knife from him and, gritting his teeth against the pain, he chucked it with all his strength through the bars and out of the window. It sailed smoothly in a glittering arc through the early morning air and fell with a splash into a handy cesspool.

"Good aim!" Tony cheered, "but that looked like it hurt," he added sympathetically.

"Actually," Mac coughed, swaying unsteadily, "it felt kinda good! If it hurts, it means I'm still alive, right? Ouch." Mac reached inside his shirt and brought something out from where he had hidden it under one arm. "I didn't get to use my smokebomb... how disappointing!" He placed a hand against his abused ribs and took a couple of cautious breaths.

"The day is young," Tony quipped, "and all this noise is going to bring company. Come on!"

They stumbled out of the room, and Tony pushed the door shut and locked it. Mac took the ammo clip from one of the pistols and kneeling down, he used it to wedge the door tightly. "That won't hold 'em long," he wheezed as he tried to regain his feet.

Tony laughed and took Mac's arm over his shoulder. "Let's get the hell out of here. I think we're double-parked!"

xxx

**Mac's Voice-over:**  
_I wish I could talk first-hand about our daring escape... how we came up with brilliant tricks to elude the guards, thumbed our noses at the bad guys, and swept out of Jiru with a rousing chorus of _'Yankee Doodle Dandy'_ in two-part harmony... _

_But I can't. Honestly, I can't remember a thing that happened after we left the Fortress. And Tony! He's **no** help... his version of the story changes every time he tells it-- more guards, more gunfire, more explosions, and lots of daring-do... all very exciting and sounding similar to something I saw on The Late, Late Movie when I was a kid. _

_All I can say for sure is... I **never** would have made it out of Jiru without his help. Tony Sullivan saved my life... again._

_The first clear memory I have is waking up in a hospital-- no surprise there!-- and eavesdropping on a very interesting conversation:_

"...Quiet, Lieutenant, or you'll wake him up."

"Sorry, Colonel. I just received a call from Captain aFeyd. The remainder of the magistrate's forces have been rounded up and imprisoned. We have Rafka Sri in custody."

"And the American criminal?"

"Ryerson was not found in the Fortress, sir. There are rumors of him being seen crossing into Africa, but I am sure it is only a matter of time before he is caught. The United States Government is insisting on extradition so that he can be tried as a traitor."

"We have to catch him first. He is a slippery customer. How did he escape from the Fortress? I thought that our men had the place surrounded?"

"An underground tunnel had been excavated by the magistrate. He must have confided in Ryerson of its existence, or perhaps Ryerson commissioned the construction of it himself." There was a pause. "Sir, Captain aFeyd also had a message that he wanted delivered to MacGyver."

"What is it?"

"When Sullivan provided us with the information we needed to safely decommission the old missile silo, he asked that our soldiers take of a camel that had been corralled near the oasis. I am to report to MacGyver that this creature has been transported safely to the desert south of Cairo and there set free, and was last seen heading off at a run into the High Desert."

"Why would an American care about the disposition of a camel? Are you sure that it was he that must be told this?"

"Yes, sir. Captain aFeyd was quite clear about it. He said to me: _'Tell MacGyver that his wild-ass camel bit me on the leg, dammit!'_ "

The Colonel laughed.

There came another long pause, then, "Sir, do you know when he might awaken? I have promised to deliver this message personally."

"Oh, not anytime soon, Lieutenant. This man is very ill. Why, the doctors have had to keep him heavily sedated in order that he remain still, so his injuries can heal! It is fortunate that he was brought here to the Capitol, where he could get the best medical care. I daresay he might have died if Captain aFeyd had tried to fly him all the way to the American Embassy in Pakistan. As it is, it may be many more days before he is cogent enough to hear and understand your words.

"If you will trust me, Lieutenant, I will see that he hears the message. I must remain here anyway, because I have other messages that must be delivered to MacGyver when he awakes. A grateful young lady who is now safely home in France has sent her regards and thanks... and I have a message for him from his government for him, as well."

"I think he will be relieved to hear such a message, Colonel! It must be important, to have sent such a man as you to deliver it!"

"Important, yes... but I don't think he will be relieved; the news is not good. I fear that when I do deliver this message, it will bring him still greater grief and pain."

"How so, Sir?"

"Today is December the twenty-fifth, an important holiday in America... and to this man, it is an important deadline. His mother has been hospitalized. General Hawkins has sent word that he must be sent home immediately, but I fear it may already be too late." There came a deep sigh from the Colonel. "I wish I could reward his heroic efforts with better news. Come, Lieutenant... let us get ourselves some coffee and leave this man to what peace he may have, for a while..."

xxx

Neither man saw the tears leaking from the corners of Mac's eyes as he lay still, listening to their words. After they left the room, he raised a hand slowly to his forehead. Then he moved that hand to the bedside table, groping for the handset of the telephone. He fumbled a bit and nearly dropped the thing. With trembling fingers, he dialed slowly and spoke in clear words his directions to the overseas operator.

As he listened to the dial tones, Mac knew his mother would understand why he wasn't home yet... he knew that she would forgive him, even before he could tell her what had happened... but he had to at least talk to her, especially today.

He had to try to explain why he couldn't be home for Christmas.

Epilogue 

Mac had only just managed finish pulling on his clothes when the door of his room opened unexpectedly. He looked up in startled guilt, but relaxed when he saw that it was not the nurse but, in fact, Tony Sullivan.

"What's going on, MacGyver?" Tony asked, as he lounged against the doorjamb in the semi-dark room. He reached over as if to flick on the light-switch. "Forget to pay your lighting bill?"

"Don't," Mac asked in a soft voice, "don't turn on the light... it'll bring a hoard of nurses in here like summer moths to a campfire!"

"You say that like it's a **bad** thing." Tony opened the door a crack as if to look for a pretty nurse.

"It is... when I'm trying to leave quietly." Mac walked to the door and closed it, after peeking outside to make sure that no one had heard them talking.

"Now... why would you be wantin' to do something like that?" Tony wondered aloud.

What Tony didn't say out loud was that he thought that Mac looked much better than he had in all the days since their escape, combined. Privately, he decided to help Mac out, but the ornery city boy-side of him wouldn't let him do it too easily. "I thought the doctor said that you'd be staying here for at least another week or two."

"That's what the doctor thought, too," Mac grumbled. By moving extremely slowly he managed to pull his legs, one at a time, up onto the bed so that he could put on his shoes. He didn't bother to tie the laces; he just stuffed them under the tongue of his sneakers. Tony watched him with an unconvincingly innocent smile. "What?" asked Mac at last, "You're not going to rat me out to the nurses, are you?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Tony said, pretending to be insulted. Then he grinned and said, "How do you plan to get past the front door, Gimpy?"

"I'll think of something," Mac said. "That's what I do, isn't it?"

"I already have thought of something," Tony said. He went outside the room before Mac could stop him. He swiftly returned, pushing a wheelchair.

Mac looked at the chair with a baleful eye. "I don't need that," he said bluntly.

"It's not for _you_," Tony grinned. He picked up a folded blanket that was lying on the chair and brought out a long coat and a hat. "Put these on," he said as he wrapped himself in the blanket and sat down. "I've got a car waiting outside." He saw Mac's puzzled expression and stated indignantly, "I am a smuggler, remember? You think I can't smuggle you out of here? Ha! I could smuggle the votive candles out of the Vatican! I could smuggle the blush off of a school-girl's cheeks! I could smugg--"

"All right! All right! I get the picture!" Mac accepted the garments and began to smile. "If you can smuggle me back to Minnesota within the next couple of days, you'll have my undying gratitude."

"I'll settle for a cold beer."

Mac put on the coat and hat, but he stood still for a long moment, just smiling at his friend. He stuck out his hand and offered Tony a warm handshake. "You're on, Tony."

_fin!_


End file.
